Luc Sante has an essay, “The Book Collection That Devoured My Life,” on a problem many of my readers will probably empathize with as much as I do: “Seemingly I’ve arranged my life in order to acquire as many books as possible…. I discovered that I owned no fewer than five copies of André Breton’s Nadja, not even all in different editions. I owned two copies of St. Clair McKelway’s True Tales from the Annals of Crime & Rascality, identical down to the mylar around the dust jacket. I had books in three languages I don’t actually read….” Needless to say, I have books in even more languages I don’t actually read (though I think I may have disposed of the Albanian booklet on the wonders of socialism). Anyway, it’s as enjoyable as Sante’s writing always is (the name, by the way, is monosyllabic). Thanks, Jill!